A Great Personality whom I'll Miss

Luky;

IT WAS with great sadness a number of years ago that I heard of the death of Mrs Kathleen Roberts.

I first met Kathleen through the letter page of a newspaper, where she often had something published.

What I noticed about those letters was her ability to understand a columnist's need of a personal involvement with the reader.

She knew we needed reaction and she gave it with a merry heart.

For example, there was a lonely hearts kind of column once.

Kathleen promptly advertised for a second husband (she was a widow and in her seventies).

A condition was stated; he must not suffer from claustrophobia because her flat was on the fifth floor.

Second thoughts

Another time a photograph was published of the editor and his staff.

Kathy wrote in immediately to say what a handsome editor we had.

"Wait," she wrote midway, "let me have another look at the photograph before continuing my letter."

You just couldn't help feeling warm-hearted.

On another occasion a man wrote in, complaining of the bad pronunciation of Hebrew words by the lectors in his parish.

This time Kathy was belligerent: "So Mr Jones feels that I don't pronounce these words properly."

Poor Mr Jones, I'm sure he meant nothing personal, but Kathleen's letter had a sequel.

Later the newpaper published a weekly lectors' pronunciation guide.

Warm

Once I mentioned Kathleen's letters in my column, and she wrote to me, care of the newspaper, a lovely warm letter.

Her sister was a nun in our local convent it emerged, and the next time she came to visit Sister they both called on me.

I arrived back from town at the appointed time, and saw that they had just arrived themselves.

They were admiring my son Joseph's ducks over the fence.

By the way, I found out only later that I was breaking a municipal by-law by keeping those ducks and eventually gave them to a farmer, but at that time they were still merrily creating havoc in my front yard.

Handsome head

I took to Kathy at once.

She was a little person with the most beautiful white-grey hair.

She told me to call her by her first name, which I wouldn't do because she was a lot older than I, but really the only old thing about Kathy was her age.

The best way to describe Kathy was to use the words in Anne of Green Gables; 

"She belonged to the race that knew Joseph."

She and I spoke nineteen to the dozen, chiefly about the Christian faith, so dear to both our hearts.

Daily beads

She had been saying the rosary daily since she was at boarding school, she confided.

"You know why I started?

My mother had sent me some money, and I lost it.

So I promised to say the rosary daily for the rest of my life if I found it.

Just then I found it - in the place where I had put it.

It had been there all the time.

It was too late then to get out of my promise, so I'm still saying the rosary," said Kathy, affecting to sound a little disgruntled after all those years to think of the trick God had played on her to get her to pray the daily rosary.

That was the kind of thing I liked about her; she was good but not sickeningly so.

She did the right thing, but kept a twinkle in her eye.

She knew I had been to Greenhill convent, which closed its portals years ago after more than a century of dedicated teaching what the sisters called "young ladies".

From personal experience I know the nuns tried their utmost to make the most of us.

"I loved that Greenhill", Kathy mused.

"In the early twenties I met my husband on its tennis courts."

Kathy's son moved overseas, and for a time she thought she might go and join him and his family,

"but my roots have grown deeply here."

An asset

Personally I thought it would have been a great loss to South Africa were she to leave it, because she was to me the embodiment of all that is good in the sort of Christian I met when I first came to South Africa in the early fifties.

Their education in the faith had been received from missionaries who had given up home and family, their faith underlay all their actions and activities.

I don't get that feeling so much any longer but from Kathy one had it all the time.

Kathleen Roberts was an ardent newpaper fan for sixty years, and I for one pray for her intercession that our beautiful paper may last for at least another sixty.

With good friends like herself, we may even be able to welcome back those of our friends who

(a) considered us too political in our views, and those who

(b) felt we were not being political enough.

Play your celestial harp in peace, Kathy. I love you.

*Name has been changed

Whimsy and Flora Rane

Luky;
FIFTY THREE years ago this year I was expecting my eldest child while working in the mail order department of a large Johannesburg firm.

One of my colleagues was a widow in her late sixties; Mrs Flora Rane, who struck me as a most knowledgeable, sensible woman.
She was attractive, immaculately groomed and beautifully spoken.

"Is it really so painful to have a child?" I asked her once.
She hastened to dispel my fears.
"My dear, not at all.
Until half an hour before my first child's delivery, my husband, the midwife and I were playing bridge."



Because I found her so sensible, her reassurances convinced me and considerably reduced my anxiety.
When my baby was coming and playing cards was the last thing on my mind it was too late to reproach my colleague.

Twelve years later I worked for a spell at Welkom library and a Mr Rane came in with his books.
I asked whether he had ever met Mrs Flora Rane.
His face lit up.
"She was my mother," he said.
It emerged that, although Mrs Rane had died in the interim, she had left life with as much panache as she had lived it.

At the age of 72, she had emigrated to Canada, taken Canadian nationality, changed her religion and taken to the ice and snow of her new country like a duck to water.

I liked Mr Rane because he reminded me of his mother and because he had the kind of manners one would have expected from the son of such a woman.
He died in 1990 at the age of 75.
When I visited his widow, she told me about the good relationship they had shared and the happiness he had brought her.
He was his parents' eldest child, she said.

As I listened to her, my mind went back to the time his mother was telling me about the birth of her firstborn and how she, her husband and the midwife had been playing bridge until half an hour before his arrival.
Suddenly I felt that life with its pain and hardships is as a drop in the ocean compared to the glory of eternity.

At the risk of sounding whimsical in a way Flora Rane would have deplored, I must admit I couldn't help wishing that the three people who welcomed her son into this life had also awaited him on the shores of eternity and helped him to ease the uncertainty of his second birth with the comfort of their reassuring presence.


*Names have been changed

Christmas Begins the Moment . . .

The Light of Christ brings Hope to our world

Catherine Nicolette
AN OFTEN recurring theme is whether Christmas celebrations are too commercially driven, focus too little on anything spiritual and start too early.,

Nonsense, I say.
The moment I hear the first Christmas song filter through the store's speakers, or see the first holly and ivy decoration, my thoughts turn inexorably to the Prince of Peace and the promise of the Kingdom that inspires both songs and decorations.

The lights; the celebratory food; the cards with the Divine Child, the crib and the star.
All of these bring revenue to the struggling shops, employment opportunities, and joy to our hearts. They also remind us that this world with its fleeting troubles is not all there is;
there is another far greater world to come.

A little Baby came to bring peace.
And if His Presence helps to keep people struggling for employment opportunities both working and earning sustenance for their families; even more reason to rejoice.

Many moons ago I celebrated Christmas in a poor mission area where the situation was so cash-strapped that all we had to celebrate with were home made presents (smooth stones painted to look like people and handpainted cards, anyone?) and the crib and tree were painted in food colours on a piece of glass (I kid you not).
That also happened to turn out to be one of the merriest and laugh filled Festivals ever.
Thus I know that all it takes to truly celebrate the coming of the Prince of Peace is joy, hope and fellowship.

Jesus, the Hope of all Nations,  brings untold joy from God to all.
In the spirit of the Angels - who sang with beauty and grace to the Shepherds of a quiet stable containing the Mystery of the Universe in the slumbering Newborn Baby - a peaceful and blessed Christmas to all.

Blessed Light - Happy Christmas and a Joyous New Year

Blessed Light - Photograph by Lumiere Volunteer Britain
for use copyright free for any worthy purpose

 

To all Lumiere Charity readers and supporters,

 

Happy Christmas filled with Blessed Light to all,

 

 and a Joyous New Year.

A happy end to a mother's grief

 LUKY:

YEARS ago a new family moved in next door, consisting of father, mother and a little boy.

I was not working at the time and I often felt sorry for the little boy.

His father worked in another town, left early and came home late.

His mother was a quiet, gentle woman who was always busy inside the house.

Early in the morning she'd wash and dress him neatly, give him his breakfast and put him outside to play.

He'd be outside the whole day, with breaks for his meals and his nap.

Picture story

The mother would smile at me over the fence, a pale, sweet-looking woman.

We never had much to say to each other.

She never visited me but I was in her house once.

As I came in, I gasped.

All over the walls there were pictures hanging of the most beautiful little girl, there must have been about forty different photographs of the same little girl.

The lady saw me looking at the photographs and told me that this was her little daughter who had died a month before they had moved - knocked over by a car and killed instantly.

The mother had gone into a decline.
Whereas her body performed all the motions of caring for her little son, her heart simply wasn't in it.

Every moment of the day when she wasn't cleaning she must have been mourning, looking at all those pictures.

Strangely enough there were only a couple of pictures of her little boy on the walls and on one of these he appeared with his sister.

Happy ending

The story has quite a happy ending because the woman had another little son and became more lively and engaged with life again.

I think the difficulties of another pregnancy and confinement, coupled as they were with a severe case of varicose veins, together with the time she had spent in the grieving process helped her to face life again.

Miscarried

A few years later I was lying in hospital after a miscarriage.

The baby, perfectly formed at three months old, was taken away from me after I had baptised it.

"You cannot bury a foetus which is younger than six months", the doctor told me, rather bluntly, I felt.

"It will be incinerated."

All night I had lain awake, wondering if the baby was dead when I baptised it, if it hurt when it was incinerated, if perhaps they hadn't incinerated it at all but preserved it in a jar for teaching purposes.

My heart was heavy.

Beautiful

That night my campaign against abortion was born.

Having held and baptised that most innocent and beautiful little creation, I realised the horror of the violation of the rights of the unborn, and I have tried to pass on this message ever since.

A friend of mine was pregnant and received offers of counselling on how to destroy her child.

I spoke to her by the hour.

She duly brought the child into the world.

But when I saw the people who once counselled the mother to abort the child now covering it with kisses and buying dolls for her for Christmas, I was thoughtful.

A cheering sight

But where does this tie up with the mother of the little girl?

Well, as I lay in that hospital bed, unable to cry but pining within myself, I though I would never be happy again, having lost the baby.

Then Sean, who had studied psychology and who helped me greatly whenever I was in distress, walked into the ward, a child on one arm, holding a toddler by the hand and another child to each side of him.

"How ungrateful I've been", I thought.

And though my heart still wept for the little incinerated one, I managed to smile at the four others.

"What riches still belong to me.

Look at all these beautiful children.

Why begrudge the other little one its peace in heaven?"

The following Sunday, after receiving Holy Communion at Mass, I suddenly felt that someone was saying to me:

"Jouw kind is bij mij" (your child is with me).

From then on I stopped fretting.

Catherine Nicolette

My mother was having tea in the garden with a friend when she started miscarrying our little brother.

Suddenly she gasped and collapsed.

The next few hours were a whirl of activity, and at about nine years old, I was left behind in the garden terrified my mother was dying.

I was not too sure what to do after that, but I knew enough to know that we were losing the eagerly awaited new arrival to our family.

After a few moments in prayer, I made a little sacred area in the garden with a twig cross.

Years later

Years later I visited the house, long after we had left.

The current lady of the house allowed me to wander around the garden.

I stopped to pray at the little memorial to my brother, twigs long gone but memory never faded.

It's an amazing thing, but whenever I am in physical danger or troubled about a decision to be make, I pray to my little brother for protection and guidance.

And I always get it . . . 

God is rather good at caring for sick people

 Luky;

WHEN we first began to hear about the possibility of abortions - hitherto regarded as a criminal offence - being legalized, some hidden association of ideas brought to my mind the topic of euthenasia.

To my surprise I then found out that others I know feel the same way, and it frightens us.

From our point of view, legalized abortion, no matter how strongly we feel about it, is an academic issue, for no one succeeded in persuading your mother or mine to do away with us during our sojourn in their wombs.

Should euthenasia ever become legal, however, who guarantees that the powers to decide our fitness to live would cast their vote in our favour?

Euthanasia can become a most confusing issue.

There is sometimes a temptation to regard it as a good thing instead of the evil it is.

Personally I have had many a domestic animal put out of its misery by the vet, and I find human suffering as affecting as that of animals.

To see a person in pain can wring one's heart, specially if you have a more than nodding acquaintance with pain yourself.

If there were no question of a spiritual principle, something might be said in favour of mercy killing, as this evil is sometimes euphemistically called.

This is where the rub lies.

The people who advocate euthenasia clearly deny the existence of God Who gave humankind the commandment; "Thou shalt not kill."

By deciding that this disabled child or that person who lingers in agony should be destroyed, they are in effect saying that there is no God, for if there were He would not be slipping up in His job.

Such people are spiritually impoverished, and we ought to pray for them, while making sure their plans fail.

When you think about it long enough, you arrive at the conclusion that God is often able to effect an inner conversion in the hearts of His people when - together with a measure of time - He companions people in their times of psychological and physical suffering.

We all need this inner conversion, not only hardened sinners but also the little sinners.

But we seldom take the time off for it till we are forced to do so by circumstances which neither our power nor our money can control.

Illness of a loved one, a mental or physical challenge in one of our children, or personal physical pain and approaching death melt our self-importance and superficial values.

All the paltry values, once thought so important, change.

"All my children will receive higher education" becomes: 

"I wonder if my child will ever learn to talk."

And: "My husband just has to get that promotion, come what may!" changes to: 

"If only my husband's life is spared, how happy we'll be again."

Personal pain and the certainty of approaching death bring to mind the pain of Christ Who was crucified for each individual, showing how little we did in return and granting an eleventh hour opportunity of making amends.

We must make our Lord as least as sad as our more difficult children make us.

He longs to admit us to Heaven, but only our inner conversion can prepare us.

When this process seems to take a very long time, there must be a reason for it - and we must not let euthanasia destroy it.

Our Lord has not forgotten us or our patients.

He does not need us to teach Him His job.

Christmas - The time for soft answers

Luky

With Christmas around the corner and when the older generation is anxiously awaiting the arrival of their families, quarrels are easily sparked off, sometimes by minor irritations.

We long for our families to get together again - but when they do, we tend to find that the individuals concerned have gown into different directions, have different opinions and voice them, sometimes too stridently.

This may lead to dissension or even degenerate into a road show.

At the end of the Christmas holidays when you look back at the presents, so generously and self-sacificingly purchased by the siblings for each other, you may find yourself wondering what went wrong - because you know they dearly love each other.

Some people are irritable because they may have been working a great deal of overtime in order to be able to take time off for the holidays.

The younger ones amongst them are gnawing their nails wondering if they have passed their exams and if there will be a place in the job market for them now that they are of an age and sufficiently qualified to start working.

In this climate a word that offends, even unintentionally may start an acrimonious quarrel.

Years ago a much loved colleague left our newspaper office and our editor asked each of the reporters on the staff to write one sentence in her praise.

I don't remember what I said but I really agreed when a fellow-reporter commented: 

"I'll miss her most because of the way she always gave the soft answer that turneth away wrath."

No matter who you were, she gave such good example that jealousy and negativity disappeared as snow before the sun whenever you had a chat with her.

There is nothing brotherly or sisterly about being overly personal about the appearance of others. 

I shudder at the way people can be put down in front of audiences.

There are more ways than one of expressing oneself.

Christianity teaches us to be mild and gentle in our speech, unless conscience dictates otherwise.

While being terse and assertive may win you kudus in the business sphere, it will do nothing to endear you to siblings whom you may not have seen since last Christmas.

So when you meet again, don't whine, don't harp, don't carp and don't criticise.

May this Christmas season be one of serenity and peace for all our families.

May we watch our speech and take care to give our visitors the love and courtesy they all deserve and desire.

Giving the soft answer is one way of making sure we'll be seeing them again.